


Erotic/Aversive

by YvannaIrie



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Unhappy Ending, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Valve Fingering (Transformers), intimacy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 15:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17409062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YvannaIrie/pseuds/YvannaIrie
Summary: Bulkhead could ask to hold his spark in his hand, and Wheeljack wouldn't say no.Then again, Bulkhead is not the one who has difficulties asking.





	Erotic/Aversive

**Author's Note:**

> Written in two sittings, unbetaed, not compliant with the rest of my Wrecker stories. Like, I frankly don't know what this is. Oblique even by my standards. Enjoy.

Sometimes Wheeljack wonders if Bulkhead’s somehow doing it on purpose.

Actually, no, that’s wrong.

He wonders _all the time_ if Bulkhead’s somehow doing it on purpose.

It’s like whatever playful (or desperate) (or both) touches they share inevitably turn to this, to Wheeljack trying to crawl his whole frame under Bulkhead’s plates because of a hint of an energy signature, to the point where he needs at least a dozen unspoken rules about where Bulkhead should and shouldn’t put his servos if Wheeljack wants to keep himself from heedlessly cracking his chest open and offering up his spark as if interface is anything to them but a way to unwind between missions.

Rules, of course, that Bulkhead doesn’t know about, which _of course_ leads to his servos temptingly sitting under the edge of Wheeljack’s hood, the feedback from his engine feeling like it goes straight through his armour, like if they slip any further in he’ll feel it in his spark without needing to really commit to giving up the pretence that it’s the only thing he’s not interested in doing with Bulkhead.

Wheeljack’s _tried_ telling himself that’s not something the two of them should want from each other but as usual the voice of reason is the last thing he finds himself willing to listen to. No, when it comes to his servos on Bulkhead (because that, too, is apparently something he can’t control, something which to his constant baffled delight gets _Bulkhead’s_ servos on him in return) his slagging affection-starved processor always takes it the wrong way, always urging him to take it further.

Take it too fragging far, in fact – which only makes it worse that “too far”, this time, _once again_ , is just an inch or two further from where Bulkhead’s digits are _already_ skirting under his hood, drawing charge and letting it ground back into the cables bared whenever he stretches to give Bulkhead’s hands space to work.

”What do you want?”

“Anything”, he hears himself say back, voice strangled. “Anything…”

“Anything?” Bulkhead says, doubtfully. His thumbs smooth across the plating, nudging it outwards just a bit, and now Wheeljack has a choice to make, so he jerks himself to an upright position, a voice inside him – one he will one day catch and purge with great prejudice – whispering _not this, obviously_ , and thinks over what he just said because Bulkhead asked him a question just now, and that’s not good.

Pleasure is not supposed to need clarification. It’s supposed to _feel good_ , and be one of the simplest fragging things to give to others because they’re at war and they’re too busy nearly dying on a daily basis to get hung up on questions of modesty and propriety and whatever slag still keeps Wheeljack stubbornly from just out and out _asking_ for Bulkhead’s spark instead of literally all the other things he regularly asks from him.

So here he is, rocking his hips against Bulkhead’s and utterly failing to divert is thoughts back to those other things, even if it would be wildly helpful because he has a question he needs to come up with an answer for, and what he wants to say is the last thing he should say if he wants to keep up his pretence about this being not that complicated.

Because what he _wants_ to say, obviously, is _everything._

What he wants to say is _you could ask to hold my spark in your hand and I wouldn’t say no._

What he wants to say is _how do you put up with me?_

But none of those are real answers, so instead he lets out a whine, bratty and unfulfilled, “ _alright_ , already”, and grabs Bulkhead’s hands, pushing them down to his hips. “Not _that_ , obviously.”

 _Coward_ , goes the traitorous voice, before it gets drowned out by the hum of Bulkhead’s laughter, and his digits deftly finding gaps wide enough to feed the charge he’s putting out back into Wheeljack’s substructure, until all he wants is to fall face first down against Bulkhead’s spark and be consumed.

 _As if I don’t_ always _want that,_ says the voice, and one day Wheeljack will find a way to throttle it.

Instead he drags his hips along the hand now firmly between his legs, more charge grounding into the seams of his modesty panels and he makes a show of leaning forward and smirking, “Come on, is that the best you _—_ oh _frag—“_ sits back up and grabs Bulkhead’s _other_ hand that’s found a way between the armour plates in his hip joint, kneading until the charge leaps back inwards and his panels snap open and he’s grinding his bare valve down on blunt digits.

He brings that other hand to his face and snarls against Bulkhead’s palm, holding it there and rubbing his cheek against it, and feeling that absolutely fragging irresistible feedback against his finials is safer than feeling it against his chest, at least, they’re not that sensitive (yes, they are) (no, they’re not) ( _yes, they_ _are_ , says that bane of a voice again), and if he can just—

He has to lean forward, gathering his weight up on his knees and grinding against the crook Bulkhead’s thumb, alright, _take the hint already_ , “you slagging tease”, he breathes out when he finally remembers to use his words and Bulkhead rolls his optics before sinking two digits into Wheeljack’s valve.

 “You’re one to talk.”

 _I am, aren’t I?_ Wheeljack thinks pathetically, except it may be that voice again, except it doesn’t matter when the joints of Bulkhead’s digits catch against the folds of his valve and the fullness of it registers, his hum of pleasure turning into a groan turning into a wash of white noise when they find a rhythm together.

He still has Bulkhead’s other hand pressed against his face and he holds it there, rubbing his cheek against it, vents pushing hot air under Bulkhead’s armour – it’s easier to keep from the temptation like that, if he can just keep track of Bulkhead’s _hands_ , and keep them from going anywhere near his _spark—_

And as if it isn’t hard enough to pick a distraction and stick to it, he can feel Bulkhead’s spike dragging across his aft, and of course, what he means to say is “ _Finally_ ”, and what he says instead is “ _Please_ ”, and starts to sit up, legs already trembling, when Bulkhead’s digits curl to press down on a cluster of nodes, urging his hips down, and Wheeljack shifts his weight without a thought before the sensation washes over him.

He feels more than hears Bulkhead urging him, voice lost in the roar of his own vents, every sensor alight, and suddenly the weight of his own frame is too much and he’s collapsing over Bulkhead’s hood; where he feels that feedback, the hammering of that spark even through all that armour, and suddenly every one of his circuits is spilling charge and racing to his extremities only to find ground where he’s touching Bulkhead.

“Oh, you conniving heap of slag”, he tries to say, gets as far as “oh”, the rest of it turning into a static-laden moan and Bulk’s name and then he gives up, charge leaping from his glossa to Bulkhead’s palm and back along his slack jaw, and then his overload washes over every sensor, before even that fragging voice can crow about it.

He’s pressing down against the hand on his cheek, except it’s not a hand, and he’s rubbing his finials across a lateral seam on Bulkhead’s hood, and Bulkhead’s holding him there, petting along his shoulder, the rumbling of his engine making Wheeljack’s already loose plating vibrate until he feels strutless and spent.

After a while, Bulkhead chuckles at him. And, _oh,_ “come _on_ ”, Wheeljack says, _whines_ , _fine_ , still bratty, and then finds his own servos long enough to find Bulk’s and shove them up besides his helm.

And of course the fragger’s still grinning at him, handsome and pleased with himself and terrifyingly tender, not even pretending he’s going to give Wheeljack an out this time.

(Was he supposed to want one?)

(He’s forgotten already.)

Bulkhead makes a low noise, and Wheeljack presses their hoods together, dragging out into a gratifying moan, and he hates that already because he knows he’ll be hearing it in his dreams, dragging it out into something far more coarse when he presses a kiss against a seam and charge jumps from Bulkhead’s armour to ground itself on his glossa.

“You did that on purpose”, he says, not looking up.

He can feel his own spark still racing, chasing that resonance. “ _Obviously_ ”, Bulkhead says, graciously staying still until Wheeljack manages to lever himself up off his hood. Almost. Actually, no, he doesn’t, he just lies his helm right back down because it gets another pleased noise out of Bulkhead, and—

“And what, exactly”, he says, “did you do that for?”

“Because it feels good?”

 _Can’t argue with that,_ the voice says. And, oh, Wheeljack is going to _kill_ that voice—

“You don’t have to act like it doesn’t, you know.”

Bulkhead’s servo comes up under his chin, still damp with lubricant, and lifts it up.

_I know._

Where this patience is coming from, Wheeljack’s given up trying to figure out. He looks at Bulkhead, and he’s no longer smiling, and there’s nothing he can do about that, other than press another kiss onto his hand before pushing it back and leaning over to pin Bulkhead’s servos – and his own – away from his hood.

“Give me time.”

“As long as you need.”

He grips Bulkhead’s hips with his legs and charge jumps from Bulkhead’s jaw, his shoulder, his hood, to Wheeljack’s lips and grounds there among the feedback, and he _knows_ it’s on purpose and somehow, _somehow_ , that doesn’t feel right, either.

 _Coward_ , says the voice, before it’s drowned out by the roar of engines, and the crackle of static.

 


End file.
